


First Person, Once Removed

by ButterflyGhost



Category: Shattered (Canada TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 10:23:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/pseuds/ButterflyGhost





	First Person, Once Removed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DesireeArmfeldt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/gifts).



I don’t like it here. It’s even worse than where they found me. The cots creak, and one of the other kids wets the bed, so it smells of wee. At least where I was before I didn’t have people getting up in my face, calling me names. It’s not like I know how to talk to them anyway. I’ve only talked to… well… Dad in a couple of years, and he wasn’t really Dad. Half the time he was some stupid kid, and he kept talking to the air, getting all excited and pointing at horses in a field that didn’t exist.

 

Well, it sort of existed. It was an empty yard. Mighta been a field once, when he was really a kid, and not a big fat loser.

 

I’m trying to ignore the other kids when the social worker woman comes and tells me it’s time for my appointment.

 

“Oooh, Adam’s got to see a shrink,” Maria says – like she doesn’t. The other kids snigger, and I don’t say anything. Just follow the woman through to the doctor’s office.

 

It could have been worse where Dad left me. It was worse when he wasn’t there. He’d visit, ask if Carol was looking after me, and I’d lie, say yes. Then he’d stand there and talk to the wall a bit, then he’d say he’d come back and get me when it was safe. Creeped me out at first, I thought he might be talking to a ghost. But then I thought, what if Carol never existed? Who knows – I don’t. Dad’s messed up, that’s all.

 

The doctor’s this bald guy with glasses. Looks like a teacher – not that I’ve been to school much recently. He’s been talking for a while, and I’ve been looking out the window at the birds. “What was it like,” the doctor says, and I come back into the room. “You must have been scared.”

 

“I wasn’t scared.” I don’t like this guy. I don’t like any of them – they shouldn’t talk to me. I don’t want to talk.

 

“You weren’t scared? What did it feel like then?”

 

“Cold sometimes,” I admit, reluctantly, “though he did got me blankets and food.” I correct myself. When I first got out I’d forgotten how to talk properly, and I still make mistakes. “He did _get_ me blankets and food. When he was Harry, I mean. Harry was funny.” Harry really was funny – he made me laugh, even though I wished he wouldn’t be drunk. But then Harry would turn into someone else, and if I thought the kid was bad enough, the teenager, the really little kid was terrible. He’d just sit there and cry, and sound like a baby. I used to hug him, and tell him it would be alright.

 

 _That’s my Dad,_ I thought, _and I hate him._

“I hated him,” I tell the doctor. “I hate him.”

 

“That must be upsetting, Adam, to hate your father.”

 

“No. I’m not upset. I just hate him.”

 

The doctor picks up one of my pictures. “You draw a lot of nice pictures – horses and smiley people. You can’t hate everything.”

 

'Smiley people.' He thinks I’m a kid. “I drew the horses for him. He thought there was horses. _Were_ horses. He thought there was a library and cool things to do. Thought some woman was looking after me. I think he knew her when he was a kid, but she musta died or something. She wasn’t there.”

 

“So, you were alone in an empty house?”

 

“Sort of. Not always. There was a stray cat I used to play with.”

 

“Did you ever think of going away?”

 

“No.”

 

Yes, I did, but I’m not telling this guy that I was scared to. I’d seen the look on Dad’s face when the bad man turned up, and when I’d see my Dad after that, I’d hear the little kid crying and asking the bad man to stop. Not every time he came, but often enough. I didn’t want the bad man to get me, because then he might break _me_ like he broke my Dad. So I stayed. I hid. Because I’m a coward. My Dad’s a freak, but at least he’s not a coward. Me, I’m a bigger failure than he is. Because it turns out I could have run, anytime. But I just did as I was told, and stayed there for years.

 

“So, Adam, tell me more about your time there. Did you ever see anyone except your father?”

 

“I told you. I saw his people.” I make a ‘tock tock’ gesture with my finger and tap my skull. "Some of them were okay.” I pause for a moment, and feel sad. “When when he was a little kid he’d cry, so I drew him horses and told him stories to cheer him up.”

 

“That was very kind of you.”

 

I stare at the doctor. He has this horrible face, like he’s pretending to be a smiley person, but he isn’t really. It’s just a mask. At least Dad didn’t wear masks. All those stupid people inside him were real.

 

“What did you do, when your Dad wasn’t there?”

 

“I already told you. He wasn’t my Dad. Not till the last time when he came with the cops. And there was nothing to do, except watch TV, read, draw, and wait for him to come with food.

 

“There was a TV?”

 

“Yeah. Harry bought it one time, with pizza. And he bought me books.”

 

“How often did your father visit?”

 

“I told you, once.”

 

“Okay… how often did his other people visit?”

 

“Every few days.” Once he didn’t come for a week, and I thought he’d forgotten about me. I thought I was going to die. I don’t tell this guy that. I hate my father, but I don’t want him to go to jail. Bad enough he’s in the nut house.

 

“So, you were always well provided for, in terms of food?”

 

“I suppose.”

 

The doctor humms, and looks at his notes. “You’re thin, but within healthy norms. You were clean when they found you…”

 

“There was water. I’m a kid, not stupid. I know how to wash myself.”

 

The man nods, like I’m not shouting at him.

 

“So, tell me about your mother.”

 

“She’s okay.” I take a breath. “I’m going to stay with her when she’s out of rehab.”

 

“Yes,” the doctor says. “Your mother is looking forward to having you home.”

 

Something unknots inside when I hear that. At first I thought both my parents had abandoned me, gone off their rocker, but every time someone says I’m going to stay with my mother it feels better. Like it might really happen. Two weeks now. I can last two weeks.

 

The doctor is still looking at all the pictures. “Who’s this?” he asks, pointing to one of Harry, and two boys. I shrug.

 

“It’s just a dumb drawing.”

 

“That one looks like your Dad.”

 

“It’s Harry.”

 

“And who are the boys?”

 

“That one’s little Ben. That one’s Sammy.”

 

“Who’s Sammy?”

 

“He came to play sometimes.”

 

“With your Dad?”

 

“With Ben.”

 

“Tell me about Sammy.”

 

_Tell him about Sammy…_

 

The room goes away for a moment, and I feel sick. When I next look at him I’m puzzled. Is the man stupid?

 

“I’m Sammy.”


End file.
